


Nicotine: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

by clonesagainsthumanity



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cannibalism, Cult, Cults, Detective, Drama, Drug Use, Fanfic, Fanfiction, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Mild Language, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Overdose, Sherlock - Freeform, johnlock implied - Freeform, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9325724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clonesagainsthumanity/pseuds/clonesagainsthumanity
Summary: (Set in seasons 1-2)Moving in with the internet-famous Sherlock Holmes had completed John  Watson. They complimented each other perfectly- the brooding, intelligent, 'emotionless' consulting detective, who's partner was a war-tarnished man, whom followed only his heart. John's life couldn't get any better.But when a case leads Sherlock dangerously close to an overdose, John learns more about his drug-filled history, and realizes that his life could certainly get worse.TW: Mild language and drug use. Murder.(Author's note: These characters are from BBC's Sherlock, and therefore do not belong to me. This may include Johnlock, but I was aiming for the typical 'Sherlock' feel, so it'll be mostly lowkey ;) enjoy!)





	1. John Watson's Hero (INTRODUCTION)

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: These characters are from BBC's Sherlock, and therefore do not belong to me. This may include Johnlock, but I was aiming for the typical 'Sherlock' feel, so it'll be mostly lowkey ;) enjoy!

Living with the famous Sherlock Holmes was as spectacular as it was terrifying. From day one, he and John had chased criminals through the streets of London, getting themselves into heaps of danger. Sherlock was a peculiar flat mate, his favorite activities being hunting down psychopathic murderers and vandalizing Mrs. Hudson's poor, defenseless wall. He was also a man of strange social habits. There were times when he couldn't keep his mouth shut, deductions spilling from his lips uncontrollably. Out of nowhere, he would tell you your own life story, or expose your dwindling love life you hadn't spoken a word of. Essentially, he was showing off.

"Good luck on that date at six John, hope it goes better than the last one,"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It was brilliant, HE was brilliant, but it was also irritating.

Of course, it wasn't as infuriating as it was when he went quiet. He would lie on their couch, eyes closed in concentration. He'd be silent for for days and weeks, unmoving, lost in thought. The only time he got up was to replace the beige nicotine patches trailing up his arms. Sherlock wouldn't touch the food he was given, despite John's determination to improve his health, leaving home-made dishes and Chinese take out meals out for him, and silently willing him to eat or drink or do ANYTHING besides just sit there. John would tempt the detective to speak, asking him about playing Cluedo or how he was doing, but it was a lost cause. Sherlock would never budge.

Sherlock was a man of many talents, but he was exceptionally good at irritating John Watson. He'd be exposing him for his failed date, or being stupidly-clever, but every time, just as John was ready to give him a good punch in that hawk-like face of his, Sherlock would flash that familiar, kind smile, that took him back to when they first met.

He'd be exposing him for his failed date, or being stupidly-clever, but every time, just as John was ready to give him a good punch in that hawk-like face of his, Sherlock would flash that familiar, kind smile, that took him back to when they fir...

John remembered fondly of the old days. Maybe it was because he was 'stupid and sentimental' as Sherlock said, or maybe he was just human. He remembered he'd been alone and almost suicidal after being excused from the war front. He wasn't in the best of states, tarnished and disabled by war, but most of all...he was Bored. He was bored of the civilian lifestyle, of the typical behavior of people who'd never fought for their lives. He had no one to talk to- no friends, no family (that he wanted to visit). He barely had enough money to do the things he wanted. Even the bustling streets of London were dismal compared to the buzz he got from fighting in The war. He was hopeless, miserable... and then he met an old friend from St.Bartholomew's.   
Mike Stamford was the one to connect Sherlock and John, two bored and lonely men in need of a flat mate. Of course, a companion, maybe even a friend, was an offer John couldn't turn down. He'd been eager to meet the internet-famous Sherlock Holmes...though, he didn't realize that Sherlock was as annoying as he was eccentric at times. Nevertheless, unknowingly, the consulting detective had saved his life. Now, they solved crimes together, giving John the adrenaline rush he'd craved.  
Finally his life wasn't black and white. He could share both quiet and exciting evenings with his broody, intelligent hero. They played Cluedo, solved mysteries of great proportion, and had arguments about who would buy the milk.

Admittedly, John loved the man. His flat mate. His friend- his BEST friend. He also loved his new life, with its ups and downs. It couldn't get any better.

But it could surely get worse.


	2. The Vampires of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade visits 221B yet again, bearing a new case. A woman murdered in her own home (?), surrounded by her dead pets. Strangely, her blood has been drained from her body. Even stranger, the crime scene is clean. Who would drain the blood of their victims, without making a mess of things?

It was 1:19am on the twenty-first of January that Lestrade was running through wind and rain to reach 221B. By the time he reached the flat's entrance, the freezing rain had soaked into his clothes, making him shiver. He hammered at the door, desperate to escape the rain and tell Sherlock about the new case. His incessant knocking eventually roused the consulting detective from his vivid dreaming, and he eventually opened the door, nearly slamming it the moment he saw Detective Lestrade. He scowled at his visitor, before looking out onto the empty street to avoid looking at him. Of course, his averted eyes slowly drifted back to him.

Lestrade was soaked in a mixture of sweat, mud, and rain. His silver hair stuck to his tan forehead, unkempt and drenched in rain. He held a Manila folder from inside of his dripping coat, trying desperately not to get it wet. He looked quite miserable, shivering in the cold, and Sherlock had to keep from laughing.

Lighting cracked in the distance, thunder booming after.

The consulting detective sniffed,   
"We're busy sleeping. Come back tomorrow, or preferably, don't come back at all." Sherlock began to close the door, when Lestrade grabbed it and swung it open wider. He panted,

"More people will die by the hands of this freak tomorrow!," Lestrade said loudly, noticeably irritated from a long day's work, "Sherlock, this is important-"

The consulting detective yawned, interrupting him, "Everyone dies. That's what they're best at." He said with disinterest.

Lestrade's expression darkened, as he practically glared at Sherlock. There were dark bags under his eyes, from at least a week of restless sleep.   
"I'm giving you a case." He said sternly.

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Is it boring?" He lifted his brow, feigning curiosity. His expression quickly returned to it's unreadable state "Oh, wait, don't answer that. They're always boring." He began closing the door again, faster this time.

"The victim's blood was drained from her body, but there wasn't any blood at the crime scene. No signs of struggle, almost nothing we can go off of!" Lestrade said quickly through gritted teeth. He was freezing, stressed, and tired. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to act like his typical, snobbish self-

"Come in."

"What?"

"I said, come in, Lestrade. You don't have a ride home, and you have a case. Do I need to repeat myself?" Sherlock opened the door completely, motioning behind him into the unlit corridor leading to the flat.

Lestrade simply shrugged, sighing in relief, "Good. Thank you, Sherlock,"

As the duo made their way into Sherlock's flat, a shrill voice echoed from the end of the main corridor,   
"Who's there, this late at night?" her voice trembled, louder than the storm outside, "I...I have a gun."

Sherlock froze for a moment, heart sinking, before relief and almost disappointment washed over him. He face-palmed. Mrs. Hudson. Of course she had woken up. Such a light sleeper.

"It's us, Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade and Sherlock. Please put my gun down, it's not even loaded."   
He held his hand out, as if the poor old woman would give him the weapon without fainting.   
There was a soft relieved sigh, before the woman came into view, wary hands shaking.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson whimpered, her gun lowering, "I was so worried i'd have to shoot a fool,"

"It's quite alright," He rubbed his tired eyes like a child, "Could you fetch us a cup of tea?"  
She rolled her eyes, smiling warmly, "Sure, Sherlock. As long as you two are getting some rest after you're done talking. I know for a fact you haven't slept for at least a week, Sherlock-"

"Oh, I'm fine," He rolled his eyes for the second time in the night. Why were people so... concerned for each other? There was no reason to be concerned- they should be happy for him. A brand new case...To be fair, he almost never slept when the game was on. It slowed him down, after all.

"And remember, i'm not your housekeeper!" She crept into the cluttered kitchen, while Sherlock and detective Lestrade their way into the main room.

The living room was a cluttered mess, as usual. Books of both poetic fiction and classic novels littered the room, stacked up high or opened to a random page. Pages from various newspaper articles laid messily on floors and tables, some stabbed with knives. Coffee and teacups, browned and old, sat on the main coffee table.   
Empty packages of nicotine patches also scattered the room, opened with the desperate, shaking hands of an addict. Photos and notes were strung up on the walls. Thanks to Mrs.Hudson, the mess was slightly controlled, and smelled faintly of mothballs.

"She's a lovely woman," Lestrade smiled admirably as he hung up his wet coat and settled into the client chair- a well-worn, uncomfortable seat that the clients sat in as they described their problems, while Sherlock and John decided whether they would take their case or not.

Sherlock smiled, as lightning lit up the room, thunder cracking, "She's better than most people I know,"

"Most people you know are absolute psychopaths."

He chuckled,  
"Good point."   
Sherlock sat in his chair, gazing at where John would be sitting if he were awake. Judging by all the noise they were making, he would be up soon. He eagerly awaited the return of his blogger, but for now, he could handle the case himself. He crossed one leg over the other daintily, and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. His iconic position was that of a praying man, but the only God he was praying to was himself. He hunched over as he intently to Lestrade, steely eyes staring, making deductions. Lestrade looked worn, tired, and stressed. He must've been working longer hours at Scotland Yard. But why? Did he give the case a try before giving it to Sherlock?

"...So," Lestrade began, "I know it's late, but this case has driven me nuts since our team was assigned to it, and-"

Sherlock groaned, "Just get to the point! What is it with you people and introductions? Someone was murdered. Just get to the details so I can solve the case for you and your incompetent team!" He said, irritated. People always had to give some grand introduction to something that was of vital importance. Lightning cracked, making the room light up for a moment. Thunder came soon after, and the pitter-patter of rain worsened. Sherlock could hear hail overhead. Wind screamed from the outside.

Lestrade's only reaction to sherlock's yelling was a frown. He had grown used to the man's outbursts.   
"Alright, alright. Here's the file," he handed Sherlock a manilla folder, labeled #21-19-1. He 

took the file, overturning it in his pale, thin fingers a few times before opening it. The file was thin, with generic photos of the victim and a brief bio. It was a person named Joanna Bennington, who was an average, chubby woman, with messy brown hair reaching her shoulders. She was 5'6 ft tall, weighing 150 pounds. She worked at home, with little friends and no immediate family. Recent divorce. She had been in the military for a few years, and had a few notable mental issues- her doctor had recently prescribed antidepressants. There was also a photo of the crime scene, pristine and normal, other than the victim surrounded by her slaughtered pets: one chubby black labrador and a pit-bull pup. There was also a fluffy brown cat, whom must've been some sort of mutt. Her wrists and throat were slit, and the victim was as pale as a ghost. She'd initially been strangled. The question was, why had they drained her of blood?

Sherlock seemed unaffected by the gore. Of course he had grown numb to the sight of bloody, gruesome deaths. This was child's play compared to what he had seen. Plus, the gore didn't matter unless it was related to the case.

"We also found this," Lestrade held up a iPhone 6, encased in a plastic bag. The iPhone had a rubber case, molded in the shape of a unicorn. There was a fingerprint smeared with blood on the screen. The fingerprint must've been left by a left handed individual, as it was on the left side of the cracked screen.

"Ah," Sherlock looked up from the file, feeling a smile tug at his lips. Of course there was more. "Give it to me." He demanded, holding his hand out for the evidence. After a hesitant moment, Lestrade complied, worn hands giving him the bag,

"I probably don't have to tell you this, but don't handle it without gloves. Otherwise you'll become a suspect," The hail stopped, but wind still rattled the flat.

Mrs.Hudson soon joined them, bearing two cups of tea, "There's some left in the kitchen if you need refills. Now, I'm going to bed," She gave Detective Lestrade his cup, and offered the other to Sherlock.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," the duo said simultaneously.

Mrs.Hudson smiled, nodding, "Sleep well, you two." She went back downstairs to rest.

Lestrade chuckled, nodding, while Sherlock simply examined the phone from inside the bag.

Lestrade sighed, settling against the chair,   
"There's one thing that puzzled us about this case," he spoke, crackling his knuckles and sipping from his fresh cuppa, "The killer strangled this woman, and drained her of her blood, but she didn't show signs of struggle. And the way she texted just moments before she...died. It's almost as if it was a suicide." Lightning flashed again, and thunder came a few moments later, quieter. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock interrupted him.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock interrupted him

"It couldn't have been a suicide." He set the file on the seat, and stood, holding some pictures from the file in one hand, and his cup of tea in the other. He sipped from it, "Impossible. She couldn't strangle herself, or slice her own wrists when she was already dead. Obviously. You said the killer cut her throat when she was unconscious. It didn't have to be done so carefully, so complicated. Why be so gentle about killing her? Why drain her of blood?" Sherlock ruffled the photos in his hands, as lighting flashed outside. The flat shook at the violent storm.

"That's what we need you to find out. And here's the thing," Lestrade ran a hand through his steely hair, "You'd think there wouldn't be many cases like this- people draining the victim's blood." He grimaced, "But there have been dozens of cases like these across London in the past few months."

"Ohh, that just makes things easier..." Sherlock paused, as he heard footsteps from above. Uneven, with the strength of a soldier. John. The detective's heart leaped, though he'd been expecting him to wake. His companion would soon join him, and they would work through the night together solving the crime. He couldn't wait!

"What's going on?" A groggy, thoroughly disgruntled John Watson peered into the room, glaring at the two of them. He definitely wasn't pleased by being woken up so early.

Lestrade immediately began his apology, stumbling tiredly over his words, as Sherlock turned to greet his companion.

"Ah, sorry John, I-"

"Good morning, John. Care for a cuppa?" Sherlock interrupted him, holding up his own tea-cup with the most pleasant smile he could manage.

"What time is it?" John stumbled into the room, as thunder pounded, "And why's Lestrade here?"

"Oh, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes at his stupid, typical questions, "Don't ask questions you know the answer to

"Oh, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes at his stupid, typical questions, "Don't ask questions you know the answer to."

John grumbled, the new information sinking into his petit brain "we've just solved another case," he rubbed his temple.

The detective chuckled. Typical, stupid Johnny boy.   
"As you know John, the evil never sleep...and neither does Lestrade, apparently."  
Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who cracked his back and yawned. He then looked over at his unamused friend, John, and grinned, "Make a cup of coffee and join us! The Game is on!" Sherlock cheered, already craving another case. John wasn't as excited, groaning,

"No, after all this, I'm going to bed."

"Why can't the game be on tomorrow?" John let out a sigh, thoughts rushing through his mind as he made his way to the kitchen. He'd have to take care of Sherlock again, forcing food down his throat, making sure he slept a little, and worst of all...

John nearly tripped on something. After grumbling profanities at the dimly lit kitchen, he reached down to grab the object that had nearly killed him.  
An opened package of nicotine patches, empty except for a few of them. John grimaced. Of course. Sherlock always left out the disgusting amount of nicotine patches that he   
used. John threw the package in the trash and began a pot of coffee, rubbing his temples. He knew he would need it.   
This would be a long night.


	3. The Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of the new case, a new client has John head over heels.

Ever since Detective Lestrade had left 221b on that stormy night, Sherlock and John had got to work on the case. Sherlock deduced what he could based on the evidence they had, and contacted Lestrade asking for more information to go off of, while John looked through dozens of newspapers and articles online about both their current case and cases relating to it. As Lestrade promised, there had been many murders similar to that of their case- the victim being found near or in their own home, the blood drained from their bodies, and the crime scene being pristine. Two of the cases had been solved, but they'd been ruled a suicide, not murders. John shivered, as he wondered what it would be like to be murdered in your own home, and furthermore, having the case being told like a ghost story- rumored conclusions, and loose ends. It must've been bittersweet. After all, it was certainly better than dying in a dark, cold room that was all but familiar.

John's caffeine-triggered gruesome thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a violin. 

 

He looked up from the glowing light of his laptop, and smiled at the sight of Sherlock playing his violin

 

He looked up from the glowing light of his laptop, and smiled at the sight of Sherlock playing his violin. The violin played a big role in John's life, helping him figure out Sherlock's unreadable emotions and aiding him to sleep in the darkness of night. Sherlock loved to show off, as well. His music was like his mind- improvised, but thought out, sometimes slow and melodic and others fast and screechy.  
His keen eyes looked out the window, through the raindrops and smudges, and into the street. Surely he questioned who those mysterious few people might be. Why they were up so early, their goals, their relations. Sherlock could solve all of his own questions, if only the people came closer.

One of them did.

Sherlock's playing came to a stop.

It was a young woman, with fair skin and long brown hair, who approached the entrance to 221b. She held fliers in her hands, trying to keep them out of the rain while she knocked at the door. The woman wore indigo jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, which was mostly hidden under a long, beige coat. Sherlock could tell she was emotionally distraught even from the window, he could plainly see the redness of her eyes. Her expression was that of sorrow.

"Client,"

John cocked an eyebrow, unsettled by Sherlock's even tone of voice. The room was silent, other than the sounds of the morning drizzle from outside.

"What?"

"A client. Look, here she comes,"

Almost on queue, Mrs. Hudson greeted the woman and let her in. They spoke briefly in hushed voices, and soon enough, the client was walking into the main room.

John instantly became aware that he and Sherlock looked quite overworked John knew he had bags under his eyes, and Sherlock was nearly shaking with caffeine. He straightened his rumpled jumper with his worn hands, and sipped the last of his coffee, cracking his back and rolling his shoulders. He scowled at the bitter, cold coffee, and watched the small woman walk into the room.

She was beautiful. John could describe her nothing less than that.

She was short and relatively slim, with an angular face and brown, wavy hair. Her skin was fair, but not sickly. She must have had a coat on at one point, for she was dry despite the rain- which was good, because she was wearing a white blouse. She stepped over old cups of coffee spilled on the floor, and held pieces of paper close to her chest, Flyers.

"No." Sherlock's eyes stared directly through the client, "We haven't seen your dog, nor are we inclined to look for it."

Her eyes, beautiful olive orbs, reddened and puffy, widened, "What?" she asked quietly, taken aback by Sherlock's sudden coldness. Her voice was light and timid, with an American accent. Oh god, John thought. He knew what was about to happen. "Sir...M-Mr Sherlock Holmes, I- uhm, h-how did you know about-?"

And here it comes.

Sherlock's bottom lip twitched.

"Well, I deduced you are, or once were, the owner of a dog- a German Shepard, to be exact- by the hair on your clothes. Though there isn't much. You must've been a wreck when you lost it- look at your eyes, and your nose, all puffy and dry. You've been crying for days. That and the flyers you're holding all point to the loss of your dog. Quite easy to do, here in the bustling streets of London. Especially for someone who's only been to London for a few months. Too bad. Now, bye-bye!" He feigned a friendly smile, waving, "We take real cases, Yours is boring, Get out." His smile fell faster than she could drop the flyers. They wafted to the floor.

"Okay. Okay," The woman's voice wavered, "Just- forget it. I wasn't h-here," She then flew out of the flat, sniffling and crying.

John rubbed his temple. He should've expected this,

"Sherlock, that was bad."

"What was bad? She told us to forget about her. Respect that." Sherlock responded, frowning and turning back to the window. As he started playing a calm tune, John gritted his teeth.

"..Yeah. I'm going to take a shower," He grabbed one of the crumpled flyers, and began stomping into his space upstairs when Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out from the other room, "Did she leave already? Oh, Sherlock, you didn't chase her off did you? Poor woman,"

Having enough of Sherlock's nonsense, John stalked upstairs to throw together an outfit. He set the flyer haphazardly on top of his bedside counter, and turned to his dresser. He was distracted, to say the least. He'd been instantly smitten with lust when the woman had tiptoed into his life, and she'd been gone faster than he could comprehend.

John fancied her should call her, apologize, and keep an eye out for her dog. He did have her number...But his heart fluttered at the idea of calling the woman. Surely, she was busy crying. He could just text her. After all, he'd gotten more used to texting since Sherlock came into his life.

Hesitantly, he approached the bedside table, and cracked his knuckles. He could do this. A quick text. She may not even respond. He took the flyer in his nervous. but composed fingers. There was a photo of the missing dog printed on the flyer. John chuckles. Of course, Sherlock had been right. The canine was a German Shepard named Fish. What a peculiar name for a dog. Additionally, the name and number of the client was on the flyer, written in messy print.

Maria Cullings

A smile found its way on John's lips. He dug his phone from his pocket, and added the number into his contacts. He thought of a few different ways to start the conversation.

'Hello Maria. This is John Watson. Coffee?'

Too direct.

'Heyyyyyy...lovely weather isn't it? Sorry about Sherlock by the way. This is JW.'

No.

He sighed, deciding to just wing it.

'Hello. Is this Maria Cullings? If so, I'm sorry about Sherlock. He's not the best at talking to people. It's not his fault. It's not anybody's fault. This is John Watson, by the way. Sorry about your dog."

He set his phone down, and went to finish getting his outfit ready. Thoughts swirled in his mind- Would she be accepting? Could she forgive he and Sherlock for their rude actions? Would another cup of coffee kill him?

His phone buzzed. Looks like he'd have to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter was basically filler. I'm happy with it though.
> 
> By the way, thanks for all the support! <3 I'd love to see your comments. More coming soon!


	4. Numbers, Codes, and Love Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essentially part 2 of The Client

John hesitantly reached for his phone, eager yet terrified to see the woman's reply.

'' Yes, this is Maria. Just call me Mari. And its not his fault lol. Hes right. Im a loser.''

'it's not fine,' he replied, 'You're a lovely woman. From what I can see'

'' Thanks, John. Youre a lovely man :>) '' 

He chuckled at the woman's emoji, feeling his cheeks warm. As he started typing a thank-you message, she sent another,

''Coffee sounds good,''

Ah, yes, the coffee. He was already regretting that. On the other hand, he couldn't refuse.

'That sounds fine. Where do you want to go?'

''I know somewhere nice.'' She sent a link to a casual-looking cafè, just down the street from where he was.

'Now, I have to shower. See you in about an hour?'

'':)''

 

He strolled back downstairs, holding both his clothes and his phone. Sherlock had given up on using his violin to think, and was simply strumming its fragile cords. He stared directly into John's soul as he strummed with his restless fingers, his piercing eyes furrowed in thought. John knew that look. He was deducing. He hurried into the bathroom before he could say anything too damaging.

His phone buzzed. Mari again.

''What's your favorite number?''

'My favourite? Good question' His favorite number? He could barely think of his favorite actor at the moment.

'Well, whats yours?'

''My favorite number.. 1391919135?''

'That's a big number'

''Youre a big number lol. kidding. I dont know what my fav number is. 7 is nice.''

John couldn't help but chuckle, 'why 7?'

''I dont know. I just like numbers''

'Numbers are good'

''Numbers are useful.''

John decided to end the conversation for now, 

'OK. Showering now. See you soon '

''x''

 

John already felt this was going too fast, but he owed the woman a drink or two at least. He hopped in the shower, allowing his mind to drift along with the warm water. He enjoyed the feeling of the hot water piercing every ounce of pain in his body and obliterating it, relaxing every muscle. 

After drying himself off and getting dressed, John decided what he needed to do. 

'I'm sorry. I just had something come up. Wednesday?'

''I understand...''

John rubbed his temple, sighing. It was good to see she wasn't too upset. His phone buzzed again

''I'm busy too. Wednesday. Promise?''

'Promise.'

 

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, rolling his shoulders. He felt complicated, conflicted, as he was feeling both relieved and immensely guilty. John walked out into the main room, already feeling Sherlock's eyes burning into him. The detective was holding an iPhone that definitely wasn't his, scrolling through the messages.

"Hello, John,"

 

"Hey, Sherlock," John plopped next to him, turning his weary gaze to the phone in his wiry hands, "What are you doing?"

 

"Looking through the victim's phone, 'f course.." It became clear that he wasn't wearing gloves,

"Shouldn't you be-"

"-Wearing gloves? I couldn't use the touchscreen then, could I?"

"Well, it is the victim of a murder's phone."

Sherlock didn't respond.

Deciding not to prod him further, John changed the subject, "Do I even want to know how you figured out the passcode?"

 

Sherlock smiled humourously as he shut the phone off, though it was brief, "John Watson, nothing is ever fully protected under a code. Using a person's prized possessions can be the easiest way of 'figuring out the passcode'. Plus," He chuckled, "It wasn't password protected. Could you order some takeout? I'm starved."

John shrugged, and went to grabbed his phone, before a wave of realization hit him. 

"Sherlock," He said suspiciously, "You never eat on a case," This was true. In fact, the other barely ate in general.

 

"Ah, yes. But you do," He relaxed against the couch cushions, handsome eyes twinkling. John couldn't help but smile, happy to see that Sherlock was back to being the cynical, proud man that he was. Sherlock was right, after all. John's stomach grumbled.

"Alright. You sure you don't want anything?"

His hands were a steeple under his chin, his eyes closed contentedly, "As I've said before, digesting"

 

"-slows you down." John chuckles and looked back down at his phone. Another text from Mari. He decided to order food instead, too tired to hold himself back from saying something he shouldn't.

After ordering food, John closed his eyes contentedly. His eyelids were heavier than his thoughts of protest, heavier than his worry and heavier than the weight of Sherlock sitting up, and wrapped a loose arm around him. He didn't rebut against the action, instead letting himself drift off. He needed it. He didn't have the perseverance his friend had, nor did he have the energy to stay up late in the night for the sake of a case. He felt strangely peaceful, like he was under the protective watch of his sociopath of a friend.

 

John had fallen asleep against Sherlock. Of course, the consulting detective didn't mind the company, sighing with content to himself as he waited for his friend's food to arrive. John's phone lit up... and out of curiosity, He grabbed it. A text from a miss Mariah Cullings. His keen eyes drifted to the flyers laying on the floor, as he moved his arm away from John.

 

''See you soon, Johnny boy :)''

He set the phone face-down on the table, and waited in the quiet flat for John's food to arrive.


	5. A Doctor's Philosophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make their way to the morgue, and John says some things he may regret.

Sherlock's violin was his heart, if he had one. When he was solving a new case, his music was upbeat and quick, improved but beautiful. Sherlock needed the music. It helped him concentrate on his work, to focus on his mind palace. The music was charming, like his joy was overflowing into the flat. When he was deep in thought, he would rise and grab his violin automatically. He loved slow, melodic, melodramatic music, something you would hear in a great symphony. He'd play the same tune for hours and hours, as he was lost in his own mind. When Irene Adler had disappeared from his life, his songs were seductive, but melancholy. His heart ache was heard by anyone who listened to the depressing music, shared with any bloke who heard the tune. He was always a man of music- even on the boring, casual days, where he and John sat around watching the televison or pacing across the flat, he played. He knew many classic works, but he particularly loved Mozart. If he was especially bored, he tried to convert sheets of piano music to violin. Some would dream of such a musical, talented flat mate, but waking up to Sherlock's music at 3am could be a little irking. Thankfully, John had grown accustomed to the beautiful music, and his heart leaped when he heard it. He cherished it, no matter the time of day.

So, John was content, overjoyed to wake up to the sound of Sherlock's slow violin.

He blinked away the morning light, eyes burning, and glanced around the cluttered flat. Sherlock's spontaneous song wafted throughout the room, going from fast and thrilling to slow and somber, fast to slow, happy to sad. He was thinking. John sat up, cringing as the springs of the sofa creaked loudly. The consulting detective's music halted, leaving the room hauntingly silent. He faced the window, watching John through the reflection. John tested his voice, clearing his throat as quiet as he could muster. His head pounded. As he began mumbling a greeting, Sherlock interrupted him,

"Morning John." His icy gaze locked on the blogger, "You were asleep for ages. I was starting to wonder if you had slipped into some sort of coma. Your takeout is in the fridge."

John rubbed his eyes, which burned and dazzled with morning light. His cloudy mind clung to his Sherlock's words, and he grumbled,

"How long was I awake?"

"Well, you went to sleep around noon, and it's about 6am now, so...quite more than eight hours."

That explained his pounding headache. He massaged his temple, his body aching. His body begged him to rest longer, but the gears in his mind were already turning. He dragged himself off the couch, stretching and scruffing his own hair. Maybe food would help. He contemplated what he'd do to soothe himself- take a long bath, wrap himself in warm clothes, and have a cup of coffee. Maybe he'd read a little before starting back on the case-

"By the way John, we're going to St.Bart's after you have breakfast. Be ready."

Or maybe not.

John grunted in response, and wobbled into the kitchen. Somehow it was worse than the main room. The table was cluttered, covered with old papers and scientific equipment. Coffee cups, days old, sat by the sink. They had no food, either than a few slices of moly bread and some peanut butter. Empty boxes of takeout sat on the counter, attracting seven entire species of bugs. He took his takeout from the fridge. There was no point in trying to heat it up. Besides, there was nothing wrong with cold Chinese food- okay, there was plenty wrong with it, but John was too groggy to care. He walked back into the main room, and sat on the couch. He watched Sherlock text with rapid fingers, pacing the room, as he ate his takeout. He looked up from his phone, staring at John with his hungry, dazzling eyes impatiently. John, feeling a bit threatened by his icy look, ate a tad faster. He shoved a bite of rice and cold chicken into his mouth, and swallowed, "So, where are we going again?"

"To the morgue, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, "Molly was ill this week, she only just returned to work. I don't like new people, so I waited."

"...How-?"

"She texted me. She never stops texting me." He grabbed his coat, which was lying on the floor, and straightened the collar. He put it on.

John set the empty box of takeout on the coffee table. Poor, sweet old Molly Hooper. He grabbed his phone, turning it in the palm of his hand. It lit up, and he saw all the texts he had retrieved from Maria. He scrolled through all the 'hi's and 'you there?'s and sent a quick message,

'Sorry. Busy. Sherlock'

"Are you done eating yet?" Sherlock wrapped his blue scarf around his neck, frowning with impatience.

"Yeah, just...let me get dressed into something else-"

"Ugh, no! You're coming with me," He hoisted his blogger up the best he could, which was only about a few feet.

"SHERLOCK!"

John struggled against his friend's grip as he was awkwardly carried down the stairs, Sherlock's face scrunched up with the effort. He set him down by the door, still gripping his hand tightly.

"Sherlock, You are...ridiculous."

"Agreed." He answered bluntly, before opening the door hastily. They were greeted by blinding camera flashes. The press harassed them,

"Did you take the new case?"

"Have you caught any criminals yet?"

"I love your blog, John!"

Sherlock chuckled lightly to himself, slamming the door to 221b shut and rushing into the sidewalk, dodging the paparazzi, and dragging John along with him.

"Taxi!" He screamed against the harsh wind, blowing his hair wildly around his face.

A black cab slowed to a stop in front of them,

"Where to? A gruff, heavily accented voice called from inside the car.

"St. Bart's hospital!" The detective climbed into the car, and immediately turned his gaze to the window. John followed, closing the door behind him. As the car began to move, Sherlock watched London pass by him. Comfortable silence surrounded them.

As the cab drove along, John reflected on the morning, reminding himself that he'd been in the arms and dragged through baker street by his dear friend Sherlock. He was still catching his breath. He chuckled breathily.

"Sherlock,"

"Hmmm?"

"That was...something,"

"Amazing? Brilliant? That's what you always say,"

John smiled softly, "Let's just say it was very random,"

"Let's leave it at that,"

Their ride continued on in content quiet, silence that was gentle and comfortable. Until the cabbie spoke up,

"So...'s it true you two are a... couple? Or is that jus' empty rumors?"

John's stomach lurched. Of course he would ask this question. Everyone asked. Everyone talked about them.

"Not that I...mind, or anythin', y'know? I was jus' wonderin'. Fact is, you'd probably make an alright couple. Good...dynamic...God, 'm sorry-" He gave a hearty chuckle.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, as Sherlock sat silent, "It's...I'm not gay."

"Well, are ya anythin' else?" The bulky man immediately cut himself off, "You don' have to answer that. My wife jus'- she said the same thing once. And then- never mind."

"it's," John's fingers tapped hesitantly on his left knee as he tried to find the words. His headache meant there was no filter, "In my opinion, it doesn't really matter, does it? Everyone's going gay these days, ahah." He bit the inside of his cheek, "I mean, I like woman- love 'em, in fact. But if I met someone who was for me, man or woman, then...it is what it is. Just my opinion. But for now...I wouldn't say im bisexual."

John's face burned. He turned his gaze to the window. Too much, too many words Surely they'd think him gay now. Great job, John Watson. Brilliant work.

Sherlock, however, perked up, "Very...insightful, John,"

He didn't dare to say anything in response.

"...Alright. Yeah. I agree, Mr. Watson," The driver said, nodding to himself, "Thanks...Well, anyway, how's bein' Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson?" His fingers rapped on the driver's wheel, "Any new cases?"

"Uhm...We aren't really- It's going fine." John mumbled, wanting to anything but speak. His head spun.

Soon, the cab finally slowed to a stop, "Alright, we're 'ere. That'll be-"

Sherlock slapped a small handful of money on the empty seat next to him, and hopped out of the cab. Watson followed.

"John, " The detective said, his breath coming out as icy fog. The London air chilled the bones of the two men, seeping into their hearts, "You were very...philosophical."

"I'm just tired."

He chuckled half-halfheartedly, "You're also very stupid. He'll probably sell that conversation to the press- he does have triplets to feed and babysitters pay, after all.

John winced. Of course, he had run his mouth and now he would pay through slight public humiliation. He fingered the loose change in his pocket.

When he didn't respond, Sherlock spoke up, "It was obvious. His wedding ring was old, say a few years, and it was on his right hand. So, widowed or divorce? Well-"

"Let's just go." John took a deep breath, before biting down on his bottom lip. Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows, and waltzed into the magnificent, his coat flowing behind him. John followed, sighing.


	6. The Morgue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John visit miss Molly Hooper

St Bart's hospital was a grand old place, and a fine hospital if John could say so himself. It was busy, doctors and nurses rushing patients into various rooms. The place smelled strongly of lemon-scented windex, and bleach, and, mixed with the blindingly bright lights lining each wall, was making John's headache much worse. John rubbed his temple, gritting his teeth as they hurried through slippery hallways, taking incredible twists almost random turns that led them to the morgue. Sherlock had no interest in the patients, who were victims of everything from stabbings to cancer to influenza. He was only interested in those who had already passed, corpses, especially if they had been victims of some ridiculous, infatuating murder. Sherlock found fun in the death of a man. To him, there was no tragedy, it was all a game. It was no game when John lied awake for hours, the images of all the enemies they shared and the deaths they'd witnessed lurched behind his eyelids. He had been a soldier, he was accustomed to these dreams, but the things he thought pained him. If he was to die from a brutal murder, would Sherlock be as carefree? Or, would he scour the Earth until he died looking for his blogger, or the man who killed him? John could only hope he wouldn't have to find out.

 

The morgue was a sad place, where a corpse's fate was decided by doctors, whom knew nothing of their family, of how they laughed in joy or when they were carefree. They sliced and diced the body of a man to see what had happened, why they had passed away. Molly was a young, sweet woman, surrounded by all the death. She was a dim light in the horrible darkness. The only life in the presence of so much demise. John waved to her, flashing a smile of greeting, while Sherlock immediately strolled to the table, and started fiddling with all the equipment. The smell of disinfectant was gut wrenching, even more so when one realized that it was to hide the smell of rotting corpses. Dim white lights shone down on the trio.   
"So," Molly twirled a string of her soft brown hair in between pale fingers. Her mousy lips curled into a small smile, "What is it today-?"

"Morphine or cocaine?" All eyes turned to the consulting detective, who was eyeing a photo of the victim whose murder they were solving. The lights flickered as Molly blinked in surprise,  
She swallowed, "Uhm...pardon?"  
Sherlock was pacing the room now, still gazing at the photo he'd taken from the file. He traced the photo gingerly, gentle fingers stopping at the edge of the photograph, "Scars up the left arm. She's right-handed. But more importantly...She injects drugs into her body. She has bruises as well," He set the photo down on the counter, and steepled his fingers under his chin. He was quiet for a few seconds before growing restless again and taking the victim's phone from his pocket, "Her phone isn't pass code protected, despite that she's using drugs. I searched her phone- simple messages to friends, though they got a bit weird before she died- anyway, She injects drugs into her blood stream. Of course, that could mean anything- heroin, morphine, cocaine, the list goes on- but she's victim of war, with anxiety and PTSD. Surely she'd need something to slow her down. And morphine is harder to get than cocaine, certainly more expensive," He tossed the phone in the air, and caught it again, twirling around to face his partners again, "And how could she live in such a small flat with both a job and an army penchant? Whatever she's buying requires quite a bit of her funds, don't you think? So, morphine or cocaine? I'm thinking morphine." He turned his steely gaze to Molly, "Bring her out then, would you? I texted you I was coming."

"u-uhm..." She huddled a bit into herself, crushed under his gaze. Her cheeks reddened, "O-okay-" She rushed to find the body and bring it out.

John felt as if he was meeting the man for the first time. He was starstruck, amazed by how the deductions tumbled over his lounge, how he spoke as fast as he could to keep up with his mind. It was amazing. HE was amazing . His deductions were so precise, so clever...  
"Brilliant." he said out loud, chuckling.   
Sherlock perked up, and then smiled devilishly.  
"Oh, John. We're just getting started," He approached him, clapping his hands together. His hawk-like features were magnified by the lights that shone down on him, the shadows making his cheek bones sharper, his eyes all the brighter.   
"Look at the phone." He grabbed the victim's phone to the counter, as John threw on gloves to handle it with. Sherlock rolled his eyes before continuing, "Quite new, isn't it?" He held it in front of John. he took it, examining its features.  
"Yeah. I'd say it's only a months old, if that."   
"Anything else you notice?"  
"The case..." John raised an eyebrow, "I haven't seen one like it in years. I think they stopped selling cases like these."   
"And what can you deduce from that?" Sherlock folded his hands behind his back, watching John expecting.   
"Uhm..." John bit the inside of his cheek, "hand-me-down, or... something?"   
"Good guess," he took the phone from him, "but you're entirely wrong. This phone must be at least a year old, bought perhaps when the victim returned from war. She archives everything- mostly texts from her few friends. She seemed quite invested in donating blood, until about a month before her death."  
"A good woman."  
"Moving on. Now, what does it mean when a druggie with sensitive friendships and pets to take care of barely uses a phone as expensive as an iPhone?"

"...She uses another one?"  
"precisely!" Sherlock cheered, eyes twinkling, "Good man!" He clapped a hand on John's shoulder, "She was clever. Oh so clever," He grinned, "Now, we just need to go to her flat and-"

"Sherlock," Molly squeaked, shoving her hands into her pockets, "I've brought her in."

"Ah, we don't need that anymore. My apologies, Molly. Now, we're leaving." he flipped up his coat collar, "text me if you find anything. Especially something like a spare phone. Now, we'll be off!" He dashed out of the room, leaving John and Molly alone.  
John ran a hand through his silvery hair, chuckling awkwardly to himself. He forced a small grin to hide his embarrassment. He had seen this woman a multitude of times, and yet he still didn't know much about her. He sighed, "Sorry, Ms Hooper. Molly. He uhm, he's just excited." He felt bad for the poor woman, who dealt with Sherlock just as much as he did.

"Oh, it's fine." She smiled weakly, "I'm used to it." Molly waved him off, "Now, go on, The game is on!" She seemed just as excited for them as Sherlock was. It brought up John's mood a bit. He chuckled,   
"Alright, alright. Have a nice morning," He said, before rushing out into the hallways. They were a bit emptier than usual, which was useful, as he had more room to skid through them. He ran out into the chilly London air, seeing his friend, his detective calling down a taxi. He yelled over the wind with his booming voice,  
"TAXI!"


End file.
